


Завтра

by shaaro



Category: Durarara!!, Metro 2033 - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Crossover, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Apocalypse, much blood and violence, no pairings for now - we'll see what happens, the russians only
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-16 18:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5835481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaaro/pseuds/shaaro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Russian organisation, set in a post-apocalyptic world, many metres under the ruins of Moscow. Based on the Metro series by Dmitry Glukhovsky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

A light rain brought a faint shine to the dark, dull landscape which once was full of life. Skeletons of buildings pierced through monstrous piles of rubble which hid any signs that humans had once inhabited the area. Empty shells of cars lay scattered, but it was impossible to tell where the long trails of asphalt ended; it almost looked like something had attempted to throw the rusted vehicles about as they rested on their sides or roofs.

 

The world seemed dead.

 

Heavy, ominous clouds obscured the night sky. Somewhere up there a firmament of stars continued to exist, unaware of the nightmare that had engulfed the planet. Suddenly the cosmos seemed much more illuminated than the world that had once shone with its own man-made light.

 

“It’s fucking dark,” a gruff voice echoed between the crumbling concrete walls, scaring a rat from its hiding place. The rodent made an attempt to dart between the man’s heavy shoes, but a glimpse of silver shone over its back and it stiffened, pinned to the ground by a knife.

 

“Look, a snack,” another man laughed as he lifted the blade along with the carcass.

 

“You better watch out, or its older brother’ll come eat you instead.”

 

The silhouettes of five men hunched over a small fire, surrounded by the ribcage of what used to be a block of flats. Huge shadows lurked just metres from them, occasionally twitching, as if alive, but the men – all of which appeared bulky themselves – didn’t seem bothered. They continued their conversation in hushed voices, distorted by the filters of gas masks. Identifying them was impossible.

 

“How much’ve we got?”

 

The men shifted as they proceeded to have a look at what they’d gathered. The feeble light that the dying flames gave off didn’t help much; three white rays flickered as torches were pointed at the objects they had found. Years ago it would’ve been classed as junk, now it was immeasurably valuable.

 

Old household appliances which had stopped working long ago, covered in rust and other unknown substances. Pieces of metal, various wires, old moulding books. Anything they could find from ‘that’ world. Their children might not even know what half of the items were, or perhaps they’d find new uses for them.

 

“Hey, what are you doing?” One of the voices pierced the silent air, and the others hissed at him. Loud noises might attract the new inhabitants of the world, and none of them wanted such an encounter. Slowly the glinting round eyes of the gas masks turned.

 

One of the figures seemed to shrink in on itself, retracting an arm from the small pile that lay in front of it. A thin, torn book fell from its gloved fingers near its pocket and an apologetic murmur resounded from the filter of the gas mask.

 

“Do you know how much that’s worth? If you want it so badly, fucking pay up!” Growled the man in a strangled voice, attempting to tone down his anger. But to his surprise, the man who’d tried to take the book pulled eight bullets from his pocket and offered them to the others. Two each.

 

The bullets weren’t the kind usually used in the firearms the men carried. They were much more powerful, and in the new world, where coins held no value, they served as a form of money. The man was giving a handful of his own for a few old pages bound together, and the others were bewildered. Nevertheless, they calmed down, accepting the offering, and the man once again picked the book up.

 

Instead of peeling the pages apart, he slid it into his heavy protective suit, saving it for later. The other men shook their heads, incapable of understanding the logic behind their colleague’s behaviour, but they didn’t inquire. They sifted through the piles of loot, throwing aside items they deemed useless, even for the desperate people of their world. They couldn’t afford to waste valuable space and strength on things that wouldn’t sell.

 

A strong gust of wind jostled the ruins around them, low creaks echoing in the sheltered area. Suddenly, tension rose in the group as the wind grew stronger, and they started looking around nervously, their spines tingling in anticipation. Living in this wild, predatory world, they’d developed a new instinct of sorts – the sense belonging to prey, the knowledge that something was lurking in the shadows, hunting them.

 

“Stay calm, comrades, it’s just the wind,” one of the men spoke out, though his voice was low and uncertain. It didn’t do much to reassure the group, and they continued to scan the area with wide eyes hidden behind dark lenses. Only one of them seemed to stay perfectly still, his gaze lingering somewhere above the tiny flames, his fingers resting on the material behind which the old book was hidden.

 

Soon, despite the nervous atmosphere, the whispered conversations resumed. Apparently it had simply been the wind after all. A small laugh even managed to escape the ring of light, until the sound of metal brushing against thick material was heard.

 

The gas masks all turned towards the man, but before they could register anything, a series of gunfire pierced the air, painful to the ears. But even more deafening was the almost human shriek that followed the explosion of noise, picked up by other creatures all around them.

 

“The fuck are you doing?! You’ve irritated them!” cried one of the men, desperation flowing in his hoarse voice. Of course there was no logic behind his words; the monsters had in fact been observing them for a while now, waiting for the moment to pounce on the unaware men. “Now we’re all going to-“

 

A bloodcurdling scream cut off his words, followed by a sickening splatter. If not for the protective suits, the remaining men would likely have felt the hot liquid on their skin, the blood of their comrade, whose head had been ripped off of his neck.

 

Three beams of flickering light turned towards the monster that was now licking its glinting fangs. It was huge, towering over even the tallest of the group, covered in rough, grey fur, matted in many places. Its tiny black eyes barely reflected any light, but its quivering nose and whiskers showed that it was inhaling their scents. Protruding incisors shone yellow and red, dripping with blood, just like its enormous claws. A thick, naked tail, almost as long as its body hit the ground with a thump, putting the fire out, though none of the men could tell if it was a subconscious action or not.

 

“Looks like the brother came after all,” murmured one of the men as he raised his shotgun, aiming at the mutant. “Last time I owned a rat, its favourite food was cheese, not flesh!”

 

Another deafening bang shook the unstable buildings and two bullets pierced the creature’s chest. It swayed slightly, blood spurting from the gaping holes, then fell onto the headless body of their comrade, dead. The mutant blood mingled with the human’s, and chaos erupted.

 

The monsters around them shrieked, louder than the shouts of the men. Gunfire resounded incessantly in the darkness, and any onlooker would have a hard time discerning the men from the rats. But in the midst of the fight, it was obvious it was a hopeless struggle. Four men soon fell to three, and even when the man with the book lifted the discarded weapon to fight with both hands, more and more mutants appeared.

 

Only a grenade could stop the flood of fur and claws, and that would require sacrificing the three soldiers. But it was an item none of them had – and even if one of them carried something similar, removing it from his pocket would take more time than he had.

 

The gas mask was ripped off the face of the man with the book, revealing light strands of hair that stuck to his face. Blood and sweat dripped down his temple and cheek, contrasting with his steely irises which shone with determination and killing intent. The man looked up at the mutant that stood before him, its muzzle open wide, preparing to clench its teeth around his head…

 

He took a deep breath, savouring the bitter, radioactive air and thick stench of blood and wet fur, knowing it would be his last.

 

The man pulled both triggers at once, aiming at the beast’s heart. He wasn’t given the chance to see his enemy fall, darkness engulfed his vision as he felt his own body hit the ground, air forcefully pushed out of his lungs. He could vaguely taste thick, hot iron, but even that faded to nothingness. One sound echoed in his mind as he lost consciousness.

 

_“Slon!”_

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the early hours of the morning, with the dimmed station lights, it was loud. Very loud. People were shouting, their heavy boots hitting the old marble floor like thunder. Ah, wasn’t that a metaphor? When was the last time any of them had heard thunder, seen lightning, felt real rain on their skin? It was a myth, something read in books, too surreal to truly exist. Or at least that was what many of the youths thought, listening to tales of _that_ world, told by their elders.

 

The girl stretched on the bed – one of the few real ones on the station - and lazily listened to the incoherent yells, recognising a few orders. It seemed the Stalkers were back. Her mind returned to thoughts of the weather, imagining rain falling from the seemingly endless sky, with no obvious source apart from the fluffy white clouds. She could almost feel the warm summer droplets pouring down her face, dampening her blond hair, and she closed her eyes, savouring the image.

 

“Dead, they’re all-“

 

The sudden outcry tore her out of her daydreams and she sat up, icy blue eyes wide open. She gazed at the tent entrance, shocked by the proximity of the voice. Immediately her mind connected two facts: the Stalkers were indeed back, and the hospital was just past the offices near her tent. Whatever happened on the surface must have been bad. Or worse – fatal.

 

“Are you certain that none of them have survived?” A composed voice asked, one that the girl recognised all too well. It was cold, almost emotionless, as if the men who’d apparently perished were meaningless, just an addition to the statistics. “Have none of the goods been taken in?”

 

“No, sir. Most of it was destroyed. The weapons too. And even though we managed to kill off most of the mutants, we can’t go back until we make sure the area is clear. Dispose of the carcasses, so they don’t attract scavengers. We can’t send any other Stalkers out for more goods until that’s been dealt with, it was too close to the entrance. We need to hope that nothing bigger tries coming down here in the meantime.”

 

“I see.”

 

The conversation had apparently ended, and the girl sat on the edge of her bed, gripping the mattress. She couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t she remember? Her memory never failed her… But now she felt like she was in a dense fog. Yesterday…

 

“Father!” she blurted out, jumping off the bed and running outside without even putting her shoes on. She immediately regretted her impulsive action, but it was too late. The tall, slender man turned to look at her, his eyes the same piercing blue as hers, and a deep frown etched onto his face. His conversation partner, a scruffy young man, glanced at her, then bashfully averted his gaze.

 

“Vorona. I have told you before not to disrupt my work. I have more pressing matters,” he dismissed her, turning his back towards her. The girl he referred to as ‘Vorona’ looked like she was about to argue, but eventually calmed herself. She followed the men barefoot, ignoring the threat of cutting her soles.

 

“Is the state of the Stalkers confirmed? Probability of survival, null?”

 

She ignored the several questioning gazes of onlookers, used to the surprised reactions to her unique manner of speech. She’d never been made fun of though, being the daughter of one of the Stationmasters. And while her father rarely had any time for her, he made sure she had perfect living conditions, at least according to the standards of the underground. It wasn’t like Vorona could remember what it was like _up there_ anyway.

 

The man remained silent for a moment, then spoke without turning to look at her.

 

“They’ve all been announced dead. Do you expect any man to be capable of surviving not only being torn apart by mutants, but also an explosion? Not even you are so naïve.”

 

Vorona stood there, speechless, watching her father disappear behind the corner as he headed towards the hospital area. She suspected that he was going to note down the personal information of the men so that their families would later be informed, arrange the disposal of the bodies, and later organise the destruction of the mess on the surface.

 

Normally she wouldn’t be concerned at all about the sacrifices made to ensure the stable survival of the station. She hardly knew any of the men, although she’d managed to persuade a few of them to let her out onto the surface, or trade items for weapons behind her father’s back. But their identities had never meant much to her.

 

Apart from one man.

 

The one person whom she’d been able to call a friend. A brother, even. The one she was able to relax, crack jokes and go on small adventures with. Perhaps she stuck with him because her father despised him, even despite his immense talent and strength. But not even her father could throw out a man who’d managed to give the station so much. One of the elite Stalkers of their station. Not to mention that he was favoured by the other Stationmaster.

 

“Slon…”

 

Slon was dead. No, Vorona wouldn’t believe it. Not until she saw proof. But not even she could imagine what the large body, so full of life, would look like, torn to shreds and scorched. She, who’d seen more corpses in her life than many of the station’s soldiers. She couldn’t envision that one specific man’s dead body, neither did she want to.

 

But she had to have proof…

 

Vorona ran. The soles of her feet slid on the marble floor as she passed the arch, gripping the cold wall for stability. Her blonde hair whipped across her face as she turned, panic growing inside her. She didn’t recognize the emotion, but it urged her on. So what that her father was there? She had to know. She had to confirm it.

 

She entered just in time to see the bodies being covered…

 

 

☢

 

 

Gunfire. Continuous, loud series of explosions. Smoke, choking anyone who dared enter. The stench of burning flesh. The taste of blood. But most of all, a constant, petrifying darkness.

 

Movement was impossible. Something was crushing him, pinning his arms and legs to the ground, as if he was made of lead. He couldn’t breathe. Minutes of being exposed to the radioactive air was sucking the life out of him. Or was it the impact, the weight of the creature that had appeared behind him?

 

Cold metal under his fingers. Where were his gloves, why could he feel the smooth surface of the guns he’d wielded? Oh wait, did dead bodies even need gloves? Clothes? Did that mean he was completely naked? He did feel slightly cold, but he didn’t feel exposed.

 

Slon wondered what next. He was dead, but still he could think. That much he knew. Was this what the afterlife truly was? The consciousness existing where the body had been killed, a mere shadow capable of sensing and thinking, nothing more. How quickly would he get bored? Would it become unbearable? Was this why people were so afraid of dying?

 

He’d never been afraid of dying. He’d lived, knowing fully well that each moment could be his last. And now here he was, realising that he’d simply been unaware of the tragedy which was death. It was lonely, cold, and dark. He’d laugh if he could.

 

It was uncomfortable. He could barely breathe. Wasn’t that funny, he was no more than a ghost, yet he needed air. Could he die a second time? There wasn’t enough pure oxygen for him to survive… Survive? Exist? What if the next afterlife was pure nothingness? He’d accept that – becoming nothing more than a memory in the minds of those who knew him, he wouldn’t even know.

 

… Ah, what about Vorona? He’d promised her that once he returned, he’d take her out onto the surface again. He knew Drakon, her father, was opposed to it. But how else was she to be a Stalker without leaving the underground? She’d proven her worth, her rank equaling his own, hence her alias… But Drakon was too overprotective. And only Slon took any action to let her be who she wanted to be.

 

But what now? Who’d help Vorona?

 

He was growing tired. He couldn’t help his friend any longer. Was he dying a second time? Would he be able to miss her in that next afterlife? He hoped she wouldn’t be too disappointed with his death, although he sometimes wondered about her emotional capabilities. Maybe she wouldn't mourn him at all. Perhaps that would be better…

 

He tried to take his last breath, hoping it would be symbolic. But instead a fire exploded in his chest, reaching out to all of his limbs, white flames consuming his skin. A scream tried to escape his throat, but all that resounded was a hoarse gasp. Convulsions seized his body and he felt something wet on his face. Blood, tears, sweat? Or all of them? He didn’t even pause to wonder.

 

_Help, someone help, make it stop-!_

 

No one could hear him. He knew he was dead, and apparently he was going to hell.

 

☢

 

 

“So we’ve lost one of our best, huh?”

 

“No, comrade Lingerin. He was not ‘one of our best’. You were fond of him, and that is all.”

 

“So’s your daughter, but for some reason you dislike him. What’s your point? He earnt his codename, he’s brought us some pretty valuable stuff too. You can’t deny that. Some of those things brought us a fortune!”

 

“He puts her at risk, and she willingly gives into his foolish antics.”

 

“She’d go to others if he wasn’t around.”

 

“We shall see.”

 

“That sounded ominous! Drakon, are you sure you didn’t organise this?”

 

“You are a fool, comrade Lingerin. I have no control over mutants.”

 

“Well theoretically-“

 

A sharp knock cut off the conversation in the small, dim office, lit only by a single hanging bulb. Vorona’s father sat at one side of the table, opposite a shorter, more bulky man, with a cigarette poking out from the silver hair of his beard. Two sets of sharp eyes turned towards the door, which promptly opened, revealing a middle-aged woman. Her expression was serious, yet somehow afraid, emphasised by her taught skin which was pulled back by her ponytail.

 

“Comrade Drakon, Comrade Douglanikov…” she started, but couldn’t find the right words. She appeared as if she was about to faint, her complexion paling. Lingerin stood, as if preparing to catch her, but she regained her composure after a short moment. “The hospital… You are required.”

 

Drakon was about to mutter a ‘what’s she done this time’, but stopped himself just in time, exiting the office without so much as glancing at the other Stationmaster. Lingerin, however, watched the man, his smile fading, and followed him after taking a deep breath of smoke. He was fully aware of his colleague’s thoughts, but knew that arguing with him would be pointless. Both father and daughter were incredibly stubborn.

 

The woman eventually returned to the hospital after them, too shaken to give any more explanation. Not that it was required, anyway.

 

 

☢

 

 

Vorona sat next to the large, off-white sheet that covered the lifeless body of her comrade. No matter how long she stared at it, it wouldn’t move. His chest might as well have been made out of concrete.

 

 _They say that dead men look smaller. More fragile. Apparently that is false_ , she thought, barely registering the words in her mind. But it was true, the man she knew looked no weaker even in death.

 

… Although she didn’t dare pull the sheet further back. It had been enough that she uncovered his head for a moment – she barely recognised him. His hair, naturally pale, had been dyed a deep red, tangled and sticky from blood which could only have been his own. His skin had been torn and mangled around his temple, threatening to reveal the bone underneath, and it appeared that the back of his skull had also been damaged. But worst of all was the fact that his expression was unmoving – as if asleep, but it obviously was not him. That wasn’t the Slon she knew. He was too peaceful, too static.

 

But it wasn’t anyone else, either. It was just the body that once belonged to her friend, but nothing more. An empty shell.

 

Just like the remaining men. Their bodies had been brought back, but all now rested under identical sheets. Vorona suspected that they all were in a similar state. Shredded, burnt, destroyed. Dead.

 

The blonde had no idea how long she’d been sitting there. Her feet were so cold they’d become numb, and her entire body felt frigid from the inside, as if someone had placed a glacier in her chest. Then again, the local men occasionally joked that she had a heart of ice, something Vorona always found absurd. She had a normal, fully functioning heart, but the metaphor flew completely over her head.

 

Consumed by her thoughts, she felt herself shiver, but otherwise cut herself off from her surroundings. She had nowhere else to go anyway. She’d never taken much notice of how close she and Slon had become, and now, although she didn’t understand it, she was pining for him. It was much easier to escape into her mind.

 

That was, until she heard it.

 

 

☢

 

 

The two stationmasters entered the hospital area, not quite sure what to expect. While Drakon suspected Vorona had tried to mess with something, perhaps take things into her own hands, which was typical for her, there was an underlying tension that something else may have happened. Lingerin remained silent, as did the nurse.

 

While the echoes of their footsteps quietened, a sharp gasp resounded. Yet no one made a move, the men stood as if frozen.

 

“… Comrade Lingerin, I assume you are armed?” The hushed, but controlled voice of the tall man spoke out, but his gaze didn’t turn.

 

“I am. But there’s no need to shoot,” Lingerin replied, despite his hand wandering to the gun hidden in the pocket of his heavy coat. He shifted slightly, and his own eyes were focused on the same thing as Drakon’s.

 

The blonde was on the ground, motionless, but apparently unharmed, judging by the lack of blood or twisted limbs. The chair she’d been sitting on was now overturned, but that wasn’t what had caught their attention.

 

As Drakon’s gun was raised, his icy eyes emotionless and his hands steady, his target seemed unmoved. Grey irises watched him keenly, although they seemed almost blank, in a different way than the older man’s. Like the eyes of an animal, lacking fundamental human understanding, controlled by instinct.

 

For a moment, the only sound that continuously pierced the silence was monotonous dripping. But the source wasn’t a leak, and the droplets weren’t water. Blood was starting to pool no more than half a metre from Vorona, falling from the body of the man who was dead.

 

Or who was supposed to be, anyway.

 

He stood, despite his injuries. Despite the fact he’d stopped breathing. Despite his still heart. And his eyes were trained on the tall man with a severe face, who still continued to hide any emotion he may have felt. His hand didn’t shake, not even a bit, as the bloodied man stared at him.

 

“Stay where you are. Or I will ensure that you will not be given the chance to take another step.”

 

But as if he didn’t hear the words, Slon took an unsteady step forwards, inching closer to Vorona. His anti-radiation suit seemed to hang on him, torn in many places, burnt in even more. His arms were almost bare where the thick material had been incinerated, revealing charred skin, but the power in his muscles was almost visible.

 

“… You,” stated the man, although his voice was so rough it sounded like a growl. Slon slowly, almost gingerly licked his cracked lips. “You gave the order.”

 

Lingerin took a step forward, opening his mouth to interject, but the target of the man’s accusation spoke first, maintaining his composure as always.

 

“You have no right to complain about my commands. You are fully aware that the incident took place too close to the station’s entrance. And as a Stalker and my soldier, you acknowledged the condition that you would accept all orders, even if you were to die. Now back away from Vorona, or I will shoot you.”

 

“It’s not him, Drakon. You know that,” Lingerin commented in a low voice, but received no reaction. “Don’t shoot. He’s probably in shock.”

 

But at that moment three more weapons were aimed at Slon. Long barrels of rifles, most of them appearing rather worn, but still deadly. The men holding them were obviously soldiers, and the woman – the same one who’d informed Drakon and Lingerin of the current event – was lingering near the entrance, too afraid to come any closer. But it seemed she was the one who’d called for backup.

 

The faintly glinting metal only seemed to fuel the animalistic rage inside Slon as his fingers curled, reminiscent of claws. He carefully stepped over Vorona as he approached the armed men, hunching over slightly, tensing as if ready to attack. But his eyes never left Drakon.

 

“It’s all you do. Destroy,” he continued. “What’s life to you? Nothing. What’s pain? Nothing. Dispensable.”

 

Fingers rested on the triggers, awaiting the order. None of them dared fire without one of their superordinate’s orders, they were only soldiers. But even Lingerin hesitated.

 

“In this world, everything is dispensable. Human lives especially. To survive, we must make sacrifices. And you were aware. But I should have expected that you did not truly understand the words you accepted. I shall not discuss this with you any longer. You are no soldier of mine,” Drakon said coldly, the only man so sure of himself. His own finger moved to the trigger of his revolver.

 

Slon’s knees bent, ready to lunge. Drakon opened his mouth once more to give the final command.

 

“Fi-“

 

“Cease!”

 

 

☢

 

 

With lightning speed, the reflex of a cat, a slender body entered the middle of the battlefield. With her back to Slon, she glared at her father, preventing the men from shooting. None of them would dare risk injuring Vorona – especially with Drakon around. Her arms were spread out, but her posture showed she was confident no one would make a move. Not even her father.

 

Silence enveloped the Russians. The soldiers were confused, while Slon apparently calmed down. Both Drakon and Lingerin observed the blonde carefully, noticing a purple tint on the right side of her face, as if she’d been hit. But otherwise she appeared fine.

 

“Move aside, Vorona.”

 

“I shall not. The possibility of Slon being shot, maximal. I refuse to acquiesce to your intention.”

 

“If you do not move, I will shoot anyway. My aim is steady enough, and you, despite what you think, are not in the direct line of fire.” Faint irritation could be sensed in Drakon’s voice.

 

Lingerin remained silent, knowing better than to intervene in the family argument, but it was cut off anyway by a loud thud. All eyes turned to the source immediately, including Vorona’s, who had to turn around.

 

Whatever had been giving Slon the strength to move apparently had dissipated, and he collapsed onto the cold, hard floor, crumpling under his own weight. A low moan escaped him, then a quiet cry of pain as he tried to move. He jerked to the side and threw up, shuddering under the effort. He gave a pained gasp and rolled onto his back, clenching his teeth in pain, shivering as if suffering from a high fever. His eyes were no longer capable of focusing on anything.

 

Finally Lingerin gave an order.

 

“Lower your weapons, comrades. You’re all dismissed. Vorona, Drakon, take your quarrel outside. This is a hospital, not a fighting ring.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Slon woke up, faintly realising that once again he couldn’t move his limbs. _Back to the purgatory?_ he wondered, a bitter smirk forming in his thoughts. He was numb, barely feeling the dull throbbing pain in his body. But a short moment later he realised he could hear someone. Had his body been found?

 

“Did you sleep well? Sorry for the restraints, it’s protocol. Anyway, name?”

 

It took him a long moment to understand that the voice was talking to him. After what seemed like an eternity, Slon opened his eyes, narrowing them as soon as the artificial light hit his pale irises. He saw two blurred figures hovering somewhere in front of him.

 

“Your identity. Or we will exterminate you immediately.”

 

“No need for such haste, Drakon. Give him a moment.”

 

Slon realised he was wrapped in bandages and dressed in some light, clean clothes. Hospital, he realised. But when he tried to move his arms, he found they were strapped to the bed. A quiet huff escaped him before he blinked multiple times, trying to discern the two men. After a painfully long while his vision cleared up slightly.

 

“K… Kra-“ he croaked, throat dry as sand. It scraped as he tried to form words and the skin on his lips cracked, a droplet of blood appearing. He licked it slowly. “Krasilnikov.”

 

A young brunette approached, seeming hesitant as she glanced at the two men standing over the bed. Lingerin gave a curt nod and she stood next to Slon, gently raising his head and bringing a glass of clear, cold water to his parched lips. Slon seemed to almost be afraid of drinking it as he tensed, but eventually his instinct took over and he downed down the water in a moment. The nurse took a step back, taking the glass, and Slon turned back to the men, his thoughts much clearer.

 

“Why am I tied down?” he asked, voice still rather rough. “Where are the others, did they survive?”

 

“You attacked Vorona and were prepared to-“

 

Lingerin cut Drakon off, stepping closer and raising a palm to the tall man. “It seems your injuries and fever caused abnormal behaviour. You don’t remember anything, right?”

 

Slon uncertainly shook his head, realising his head was also wrapped in bandages. He faintly understood that someone had undressed him in order to give him new clothes.

 

“See, Drakon? It’s just like you-“

 

“That is why he must be destroyed.”

 

Slon frowned, incapable of following the conversation. What were they talking about?

 

“Why do that? You could use him as an example and figure out where to go from there.”

 

“He’s a threat. We would have to lock him up. He is to have no access to Vorona.”

 

☢

 

Vorona sat curled up on the cold, worn, marble floor. Despite the chills it sent through her body, she didn’t want to move. And while the soldiers who’d been ordered to keep an eye on her blocked any means of approaching the hospital area, she still tried to hear at least part of the conversation.

 

But to no avail.

 

She’d even tried to send the young nurse in as a spy, but she too wasn’t allowed past Drakon’s men. So now Vorona simply had to wait, her patience wearing dangerously thin. But she knew better than to attack armed soldiers, even if she was Drakon’s daughter. This world didn’t allow for many privileges.

 

“Vorona? You know sitting on the cold ground isn’t the best idea,” a male voice spoke somewhere above her. She recognised it immediately and didn’t bother to lift her gaze.

 

“Due to the current circumstances, I have no other option,” she mumbled quietly, but the man heard her anyway. He reached out to her, offering a rough hand to help her stand up, but she refused. Instead, she got up herself. She did respect this man after all. He was someone she used to call an uncle, although she’d grown out of that habit a long while ago.

 

“What’s going on, why are you sitting here?” he asked, but he already knew the answer. “It’s about him, isn’t it? Sorry for your loss, Vorona.”

 

Unlike Drakon, Denis accepted the blonde’s friendship with the stalker, and saw nothing particularly worrying in it. He knew it was impossible to restrain the girl anyway, and although he told her what he thought about what she was doing, he never did much to stop her. He even went so far as to try and talk to her father about his attitude towards her.

 

Vorona shook her head. “You are mistaken. He is not dead. My father, he has refused to allow me entrance.”

 

The older man raised his eyebrows, deep wrinkles forming on his forehead above his cold, blue eyes. But despite the hue, a certain warmth glowed in them, especially when he talked to the blonde. His reactions seemed much more father-like than Drakon’s when talking to her.

 

“He’s not dead? But the report… They’d all been ripped apart. And the explosion-“

 

“He survived despite all odds. My father, he would prefer him to have perished. I expect that he will make an attempt to kill him.”

 

“Kill him? What for?”

 

“Slon has shown... abnormal strength. I do not fully comprehend the situation. Perhaps you should converse with my father. I am incapable of reaching a compromise.”

 

She sighed, leaning against the wall, shivering slightly. Seeing this, the man took his jacket off, draping it over her slim shoulders. Unlike most clothes in the underground, Denis seemed to have managed to keep his in good condition, taking care of them. The coat wasn’t scruffy at all. Vorona looked up, almost surprised at his gesture, and met the man’s gaze. Once again she felt like a small child under the watchful eye of her uncle.

 

“I’ll talk to him, Vorona. After all, this is about one of my men. I need to know what’s going on.”

 

The blonde maintained eye contact with Denis for a moment, as if trying to understand his intentions. But she understood that this man, while being the main commander of the stalkers of this station, was doing this for her. It wasn’t about his soldier, not this time. She nodded, grateful, then looked back in the direction of her tent.

 

“Thank you, Denis. I shall return to my tent and rest,” she finally said, deciding to trust her uncle, believe that he would make sure nothing would happen to Slon.

 

☢

 

Vorona finally padded back to her tent, feeling calmer than before. Now that she thought about it, her reaction had been irrational and she scolded herself in her thoughts. She prided herself in being a composed person and now she’d shown that wasn’t quite true. How many people had seen her outburst? Then again, her closest friend had been announced dead… She wasn’t sure what to think.

 

As she sat on her bed, she glanced back at the book she’d been reading. It had been a gift from Slon. He always brought her books from the surface, knowing how much she loved to read. Sometimes she’d read them out loud to him, as she was aware that he disliked doing it himself. He much preferred to listen to someone. Sometimes they sat together in her tent, she leant against him and spoke the words in a hushed voice, while he closed his eyes and pictured everything.

 

She’d almost lost that, and more.

 

Vorona finally pulled a pair of thick socks on, trying to warm up her numb feet. A sigh escaped her lips as she brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, lifting her gaze to the barely used anti-radiation suit she had. It was a miracle that her father hadn’t confiscated it yet, although she probably would’ve acquired another one somehow if he had.

 

The surface was beckoning her. She’d only been out a couple of times, in secret with Slon, and only in the immediate vicinity of their station’s entrance. She’d never ventured past the nearest crossroads, never met a mutant up close. But she wanted more. Slon had promised to show her more of the outside world, their world.

 

Finally she decided: she’d go deal with those mutants that had attacked the stalkers herself. She believed she was strong enough and everyone kept telling her she was incredibly skilled. If she was to find a good location, snipe the entire pack…

 

She was on her feet before she even realised. The blonde put her boots on and slipped into her anti-radiation suit quickly, then stuffed the most important items into her backpack. After making sure the gas mask had filters, she gripped it in her hand and headed towards the exit, which led to the now immobilised escalators which would take her to the surface.

 

“Vorona, what are you doing?” a familiar male voice spoke behind her and the blonde stiffened, reluctant to turn around. She did so anyway, gazing at the man with animosity.

 

“What is my right. I must take revenge,” she explained curtly.

 

“Don’t be a fool,” her father replied, his voice just as cold. The temperature around them seemed to plummet. “You want to take revenge on mindless monsters for a man who is not even worth it?”

 

“Slon is skilled. Are you exhibiting jealousy, father? You cannot accept him.”

 

“You know little about him-“

 

“I possess complete knowledge about Slon!” Vorona cut in aggressively.

 

“You do not. And because of those secrets he will be put into quarantine for an indefinite amount of time.”

 

Vorona didn’t appear to have expected such a turn of events. She stared at her father for a moment, lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but didn’t utter a sound. Drakon, ignoring her reaction, turned around and returned to his office, as if taunting her. _Just try to leave_ , he seemed to be saying.

 

And she didn’t leave.

 

Instead, she headed back to the hospital without taking her anti-radiation suit off. No one stopped her this time, but as soon as she entered, she realised it was empty. Slon had already been taken in? Although it was hard for her to believe, she couldn’t even find anyone to ask. With an unfamiliar weight pressing on her heart, she gave up and returned to her tent, passing the trains where most of the population of the station lived. The longer walk home didn’t help her mood and as soon as she was back in the safety of her tent and out of the suit, she curled up on her bed and closed her eyes, forcing herself to sleep.

 

☢

 

“Vorona. Vorona, wake up,” an urgent whisper resounded just above her ear.

 

She had no idea how long she’d been sleeping. Judging by how quiet it was, she figured it must be night time. It took her a moment to realise that there was someone next to her and she frowned, sitting up slightly. It was dark and she couldn’t quite make out who her unexpected guest was, although her instinct already suggested who it could be…

 

“Slon. You were supposed to have been put in quarantine. Explain.”

 

“Your father’s gone missing. That’s the only reason I managed to sneak out. I talked to Lingerin, he has no clue where Drakon might be. He thought he went back to his room, but it was empty. The guards said they hadn’t seen anyone either. It’s like he vanished into thin air.”


End file.
